


Of Lost and Happy Hearts

by Resamille



Series: That Which Is Left Behind [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/referenced Shiro/Matt, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-War, Weddings, elemental powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 07:56:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13142349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resamille/pseuds/Resamille
Summary: There are relationships to work out, a wedding to plan, and a missing friend to find, but the world has never been on their side.The war is over.Earth is safe.It's finally starting to feel like they actually made it.Well, maybe not all of them.





	Of Lost and Happy Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to Warmth of the Air We Breathe. 
> 
> I think this can technically be read as a standalone? But I do highly recommend reading Warmth first. For context in case you have not read the previous fic: Keith and Lance have elemental powers. Katie is a hybrid of Allura and Pidge's souls. 
> 
> This has been in progress for a couple months now and I've been obsessive about it to the point I wouldn't work on anything else in the meantime but also didn't have enough time to properly sit down and writer. God. Finally. It's just fuckin done.
> 
> Alright so. I have not been to a wedding since i was like idk 5 maybe so I have no idea what so of shit you gotta do for weddings and I was also too lazy to do that much research. Also this is posted on christmas but does it have anything to do with christmas? absolutely not.
> 
> There is a possible mention of suicide depending on how you read into the dialogue but there's nothing explicitly stated.

The world was not so sinister as to deny them this.

The living room of Lance's family home, warm light cast across the floor by a single lamp someone dragged to the center of the room, is a cacophony of color, and at the center of it, feet tucked under him, and him tucked under the lamp, is Lance. On the couch, a few feet away, sits Caterina, the eldest child of the household, and the only sibling that ever has any sort of control over Lance's wild nature. She's resting her elbows on her knees, leaning forward to look at the color palettes scattered across the floor, gaze critical as she tries to help Lance decide on a color scheme for his and Keith's wedding.

It still feels surreal.

They had wanted to travel after Lance proposed, to explore and find themselves and find the other paladins, but after two days of staying in dingy motels, Lance had gotten a call from his mom questioning what happened to the two of them and when he was planning on bringing the truck back because Isabella wanted to borrow it for driving a group of her friends to South Padre Island after prom. Lance had subsequently broken down into sentimental tears and pleaded with Keith to postpone because they needed a home base from which to plan this wedding of theirs anyway.

Which is why they are now back in Lance's living room, summoning Caterina from her own life in California for wedding support and, really, emotional support, because neither of them have any idea what they're doing.

“What about pastels?” Caterina offers. “Could we at least narrow down to a category?”

Lance looks towards Keith, eyes wide in supplication. Keith scowls. Lance sighs.

“So that's a no, I'm assuming,” Caterina says. She slaps her hands on her knees and leans back into the couch with a long breath. “Well, okay, was that a no to the pastels or a no to picking one category?”

Lance makes a pained noise and leans over his crossed legs until his forehead touches the floor.

“Some pastels are nice,” Keith allows, since Lance seems to be doing his best impression of a clam, folded over himself like that. Keith's gaze flicks to Caterina as he draws his feet into the armchair he's settled in. He nearly spills the contents of the mug he has in his hands—tea, earl grey, sweetened with honey, ever-infuriating to Lance because apparently tea is inferior in some capacity—except that Keith's already drunk half of it over the hour they've been sitting here. “Lance looks good in blue.”

Lance groans and says something, but the floor muffles his voice.

“Use your words, Kiddo,” Caterina tells him. “You're a big boy, now.”

Lance lifts himself up with what seems to be a great effort. There's one of those little paint color palette papers stuck to his forehead. The delicate shades of purple don't look bad against his skin, either.

“I said,” Lance articulates, and then his brow furrows, and the paper falls from his face and into his lap. “What did I say? Oh—I don't want either of our paladin colors. That feels... too one-sided, I think.”

Caterina rubs at her face tiredly. “Okay,” she says. “Fine. No blue, no red.”

“No black,” Lance adds.

“Who would wear black for a wedding?” Caterina quips.

Lance opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it with a soft _huh_ noise.

Keith sighs out a long breath. “I think it's time for bed.”

Caterina hoists herself off the couch. “I'm with Keith,” she admits.

“No, no, no!” Lance cries, reaching out for both of them simultaneously, except that they're on opposite sides of the room so he can't really reach either of them, and then he gets his hand stuck in the lamp cord, jerking the lamp precariously when he tries to yank free.

Keith nearly trips over his own feet as he scrambles to catch the lamp before an of them get bludgeoned via light source. Lance wheezes out a noise that might be relief, or panic, or laughter. Keith really isn't sure.

“Okay,” Lance relents, steadying Keith's leg where he's caught in a lunge towards Lance. “So maybe it is time for bed.”

“Well, I'll leave you two to it,” Caterina announces, stretching.

“A little help?” Keith huffs out, unable to move without toppling onto Lance or dropping the lamp. He thinks his socks might slowly be sliding across the floor, too.

“It looks like you've got it covered,” Caterina tells him, voice airy.

“Cat!” Lance cries. “Cat, save us!”

“I'm good,” she says. “You two are the heroes. I'm just an engineer.”

“Save us!” Lance calls, waving his arms as his sister saunters from the room.

“Uh, Lance,” Keith says, as he feels like feet slipping out from under him now that Lance isn't bracing him.

“What? Oh, shit—”

Keith tries to salvage the situation. His reflexes have always been better than most, and he manages to push off the ground enough to get the lamp upright, but he can't say the same for himself. He ends up on his back, laying on the floor behind Lance, gasping for the breath that the fall knocked out of him.

“Oh, Christ,” Lance says, twisting to look at him. “Are you okay?”

Keith wheezes air into his lungs, and then punches Lance's shoulder.

“What did I do?” Lance cries.

“That,” Keith chokes out. “Is because, no, I'm obviously not okay.” He punches Lance again, weaker this time. “And that, is for making me spend two hours staring at colored paper.”

Lance rubs his shoulder, pouting though not actually upset. “Fair enough. _Are_ you okay, though?”

“I'm fine,” Keith breathes out, getting control over his lungs finally. “Had worse.”

“Understatement,” Lance murmurs. Then, suddenly: “Do you think the Garrison would make a big deal about us getting married? Do you think the world would?”

“If they actually know who we were, it might put an end to those stupid ship wars over the comics,” Keith mutters.

Lance stares at him for a moment, and then snorts out laughter. “I thought you didn't like them?”

Keith finds himself pouting at Lance, squinting against the glare of the lamp. “I never said that. There's an entire franchise centered around us and you expect me to not at least check it out? The fans have actually come up with some interesting theories. They're all wrong, of course, but it's fun to read sometimes.”

Lance looks at him incredulously for a moment before shaking his head. He turns his entire body, spinning on his butt, so he can lean down as kiss Keith. When he pulls back, the lamp light makes a halo around the crown of his hair. “You're a nerd,” Lance tells Keith, words against his lips. “A closet nerd.”

Keith scrunches up his nose at Lance. “Better than indecisive. Can we please pick a color and get this over with?”

“ _I'm_ the indecisive one? Every one I choose, you veto!”

“They aren't good!” Keith protests weakly, even though he knows very little about colors in general.

“Then what is good?”

“I don't know!”

“That's it,” Lance tells him. “No more vetoing unless you have a suggestion in place of the one you deny.”

Keith narrows his eyes at him.

Lance turns back and shuffles through a few colors. He lifts one up for Keith to see. It's a soft green, like meadows and springtime. Keith shakes his head. Lance lets out a cry of frustration.

Keith reaches blindly, slapping his hand across Lance's lap.

“Jesus!” Lance yelps at the sudden assault. “If you want my dick you can just ask!”

“I don't want your dick,” Keith mutters, feeling for the paper he knows fell between Lance's legs. His fingers brush over something smooth under Lance's calf, and Keith struggles to pick it up of the flat surface of the floor, biting his lip as he concentrates.

“Rude,” Lance informs him, and Keith is only half-listening. “You should always want my dick. It's amazing.”

Keith responds by finally getting a nail under the corner of the paper and pulling it from between Lance's legs. Lance lets out another high-pitched squeak when Keith's momentum nearly hits him in the chin, and then the air hisses out of his lungs.

Keith glances at the paper to make sure it's the right one.

“Here,” he says to Lance. “What about this?”

“I think you gave me a paper cut, asshole,” Lance says.

Keith makes a grumbling noise and slaps Lance's chest with the paper in his hand.

“Okay, okay!” Lance placates. “I get it.” He squints at the paper for a moment. “Keith, I'm pretty sure I showed you this one earlier and you said no.”

Keith lets out a groan. “Well, it's good enough. Please, I just want to go to sleep.”

“Fine,” Lance says. “But only if that's a codeword.”

“For what?” Keith huffs out, picking himself up off the floor. For a moment, he reaches out for the lamp to help him up, and then remembers that's what got him on the ground in the first place. “For sleeping?”

Lance turns and looks up at him, a sly grin showing off the white of his teeth. “No,” he says. “Exactly the opposite.”

Keith pushes his hand into Lance's face with a groan.

But the universe isn't so cruel as to deny them this, and Keith cherishes the moment, despite everything.

 

What it is brutal enough to do, though, is this.

They can't find Shiro.

Even Katie, out in the far reaches of space, managed to find a way to respond to their message. But even with Hunk's help trying to locate him, Shiro has disappeared. Again.

Keith feels this fact tug painfully on his heart. It is some consolation to know that this time, it is Shiro's doing. It's his choice to run, to hide from it all, and not the Galra taking his will from him or the world leaving him to die. But worry still eats at Keith, clinging to his ribs and tying strings of concern over his lungs, breath coming short.

On the bright side, apparently part of the reason they couldn't pick a color scheme was because the yellow lamp light turned everything off-color, and now, in the daylight, Lance decides that the lavender Keith pointed out is absolutely perfect.

Keith can't bring himself to share in the joy.

Lance and Hunk are sitting on the porch steps, Lance leaning heavily on Hunk's shoulder and possibly at least a little bit drunk. Keith sits in one of the porch chairs, watching as Hunk's hand comes to rest on Lance's shoulder to steady him. Keith might find it somewhere in his being to be jealous, except that really, there's no point. He would trust Hunk with his life, but even more so, he would trust Hunk with Lance's life, far more valuable than Keith's own.

Hunk turns, leaning back against the rail of the porch and shifting Lance's mostly prone body so that he rests against the swell of Hunk's broad chest, rather than his shoulder. Lance lets out a soft noise that's somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. It draws Keith's gaze from the skyline, where he'd been counting the stars appearing on the horizon as the sun sets.

“How are you?” Hunk asks.

Keith runs his gaze over the quiet sprawl of Lance's body, resting against Hunk, eyes closed and head tipped back with contentedness. Finally, he pulls his attention towards Hunk. “Fine, I guess.”

Hunk tilts his head. “You're quiet.”

“I'm usually quiet,” Keith says, voice soft, a bit rough from silence.

Hunk watches him for a moment, eyes narrowing minutely as Keith turns back to look at the last sliver of sunlight disappearing over the edge of the world. Somewhere. Somewhere. But no one is coming home, tonight.

“You're worried about something,” Hunk observes, and Keith refuses to look at him, instead staring determinedly at the place where the sun disappeared, praying, pleading. “You're worried about Shiro.”

Keith lets a long breath fall from his lips. “Of course.”

Hunk definitely notices the way Keith's voice cracks on the words, concern choking them in his throat.

“Have you asked Katie and Matt about finding him?”

“Yeah,” Keith breathes out. “Yeah, we have... but that's assuming he hasn't gone off-grid.”

“There wouldn't really be a reason to, would there?”

“I don't know,” Keith admits. “He might just... Not want to deal with anything anymore. The world—this one, especially—is a lot. I wouldn't blame him if it was too much, but I...”

“We'll find him,” Hunk assures Keith. “He'll come back for you.”

“Will he?” Keith whispers to the stars. “Because every other time, I searched for him. Every other time, I saved him. And I'd do it again. I'd do it a thousand times. But how many before I realize that maybe Shiro doesn't want to be saved?”

When Hunk doesn't respond, Keith turns to him, gaze imploring. He wants an answer. And he knows Hunk doesn't have an answer, but that doesn't stop his heart from hoping, beating quick and terrified against his ribs. Hunk looks back, sorrow in his expression.

 _I'm sorry_ , it says, and that's all Keith needs to know.

Keith lets his gaze drop to his lap, and he fights the tears that burn against the corners of his eyes. “What if I'm too late?” he whispers to his hands, clenched against the fabric of his jeans. “What if he was waiting for me to save him, and I let him down? I wouldn't have made it here, without Lance, and you had your family, and Katie and Matt went back up, but—but Shiro—Shiro hasn't had anyone. Because I wasn't there. He's had no one because I _wasn't there_.”

Lance interrupts Keith's downward spiral with an emphatic snore, startling Keith enough to make him jump slightly in his chair. He realizes, then, that there's fire heating in his palms, burning against his skin and calling for freedom. Soon, he tells it, but not now. He will not be so controlled.

He's in control. He's in control. He can do this.

“Tomorrow,” Hunk says. “After Lance sleeps off his hangover, we can start planning. I promise to help all I can to find him. I miss him, too, Keith.”

Keith lets out a sigh. “I know,” he says. After a beat of silence, he glances towards Hunk. “Lance missed you. You said you'd come back.”

“I did, didn't I?” Hunk replies, some lingering ache tinging his voice with a somber tone. He looks down at Lance, asleep soundly against his chest. “I'm sorry,” he says, and Keith's not entirely sure if Hunk's talking to him or Lance. “I should have kept in touch, I just... I don't know. I guess I got caught up in things.”

“Shay?” Keith asks, quiet and curious.

“No,” Hunk says softly. He takes a deep breath. “No, uh... Actually, my aunt has cancer. Diagnosed right after we got back, and... I've been helping watch her kids. I guess I sort of got caught up in one family and forgot to check in with my other one.”

“Oh,” says Keith. “I'm sorry.” Because that's the sort of thing you say, when friends go through tough times. Because even if it's not your fault, you still apologize for not being enough to make it all better. “You don't owe us anything, you know.”

Hunk glances up at him, and gives Keith a sad smile. “But I do,” he says. “I wouldn't be here right now if it wasn't for you guys.”

“You would have been fine,” Keith tells him. “You're a soldier.”

“No,” says Hunk. “No, I'm a good pretender. You're a soldier. Lance became a soldier. But Voltron showed me what I really was: a coward.”

“You're not a coward,” Keith states.

“Perhaps as you see it,” Hunk says sagely. He turns to look at the stars, gaze searching for something lost amongst the dust and void and memories.

“No coward would have been able to do what we have done.”

“But a hero might have done better.”

Keith stares at him until Hunk turns to meet his silence.

Keith blinks, once, and feels the fire curl in his heart, searing.

“There are no heroes,” he says, firm, fierce, inflamed. “Not in war. There is death, and there are survivors. And honestly? I'm not sure which is better. But there are no heroes, and there are no cowards. Your either die fighting, or you lose yourself fighting. You can't be a coward when there's no you.”

Hunk's lips part in quiet thought. His gaze softens. “Oh, Keith,” he breathes out. “What has the universe done to you?”

Keith cocks his head, and lifts his hand. He lets the heat lick between his fingertips, mimicking candlelight as it dances across the shadows of their faces. “Too much.”

“I'm sorry,” Hunk says. “I'm sorry.”

Because that's the sort of thing you say, when friends go through tough times. Because even if it's not your fault, you still apologize for not being enough to make it all better.

Keith's not sure if they're ever really going to be better.

 

“Oh, Keith! Good morning,” Hunk calls, glancing up from where he's leaning against the kitchen counter. “Yeah, Keith just walked in.” he continues, and in the early morning haze, Keith thinks he's still being spoken to.

“What?” Keith mumbles, aiming for the fridge. He opens it, and then finds himself staring into the glow of illuminated tupperware containers and fruit tucked into sandwich bags, having completely forgotten what he was looking for.

“Do you want to talk to him?” Hunk asks.

“To who?” Keith says, closing the fridge and turning to face Hunk. The sight of an Altean communicator in Hunk's hands finally gets the situation to click in Keith's brain. “Is that Shay?”

Hunk's gaze flicks up for a moment, and a smile brightens his expression. “Yeah, it is. Come say hi?”

Keith pads over, hopping up on the counter next to Hunk and using Hunk's shoulder to steady himself. Hunk tilts the communicator until Keith gets a clear view of Shay's face on the small screen. “Hey,” he tells her, voice rough with sleep.

“Hello, Keith!” Shay chirps, and Keith immediately regrets the existence of morning people. Morning aliens. Or maybe time zones, depending on what time it is for Shay.

“How are you?” Keith continues conversationally.

“Doing well,” Shay reports. “And you?”

“As good as can be, I suppose,” Keith says. “Did Hunk tell you already?”

“Of what?”

Keith glances towards Hunk. He gives a bashful smile. “I was going to, but I thought one of you might come in and want to announce it.”

Keith finds himself chuckling. “Lance is going to be upset it was me, not him.”

“Of what do you speak?” Shay questions.

“His fault for getting drunk,” Hunk says, shrugging.

Keith turns back to the communicator. “Lance and I are getting married.”

“It's a Earth custom,” Hunk continues. “Like your _joining_.”

“Oh!” Shay says, and her smile brightens. “Yes, I remember you explaining it, Hunk. I believe this is cause for congratulations, Keith?”

A soft smile tugs at Keith's lips. “I suppose so,” he says. “Do you think you'd be able to come visit for the wedding?”

“You should come, Shay!” Hunk pipes in. “Katie is coming, and I'm sure she could stop by to pick you up. Your whole family, even!”

Shay looks thoughtful for a moment. “I believe that can be arranged. It would be lovely to visit your planet, Hunk. I can finally see what these 'puppies' you speak of are.”

Keith barks out a laugh. “You'll love them,” he tells Shay.

“What's happening?” comes a vaguely coherent voice from the kitchen doorway.

“Mornin' Lance,” Hunk says, looking up from the screen.

“Huh,” Lance replies intelligently, going to the fridge, opening it, staring in, and then closing it. It's an exact mirror of what Keith did five minutes earlier.

“Is Lance there?” Shay's voice floats from the communicator. “Congratulations, Lance!”

Lance's brow furrows as he comes to lean against the counter on the other side of Keith. “How drunk was I last night? What did I do?” He squints. “Is that Shay?”

Hunk picks up his free hand, using his fingers to count off as he speaks. “At least four beers. You slept on me and then made me and Keith carry you to bed. Yes.”

Lance's expression remains deeply confused.

“You proposed, that's what you did,” Keith explains.

“Oh,” Lance says. “While I was drunk?”

Keith snorts, failing to contain a laugh. “No, like two weeks ago.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Lance says emphatically, realization finally hitting him. “Damn it, Keith, you couldn't wait for me to be here to tell Shay?”

Keith turns and shares a pointed look with Hunk, and then starts laughing.

“What?” Lance squawks.

“Nothing,” Keith says, and draws Lance closer, coaxing him between his knees and looping his arms loosely around Lance's waist.

Lance makes an annoyed noise, but lets Keith pull him close all the same. He presses a kiss to the corner of Keith's mouth, and Keith recoils.

“Please,” Keith says, “For the love of God, go brush your teeth.”

Lance pouts, and instead of going to do just that, he leans forward and rests his head on Keith's shoulder, sulking.

Keith turns to Hunk, letting Lance put more and more of his body weight on Keith and proceeding to ignore him. “What time is it?”

Hunk glances down at his wrist. “Like nine... Wait, nope, that's California time, sorry. Eleven?”

Lance makes a huffing noise against Keith's neck, and starts pushing Keith's weight (coupled with Lance's) against Hunk. Hunk ignores them both and continues his conversation with Shay. “Isabella's friends are coming over in two hours.”

“Really?” Keith echoes, only half paying attention because he's more preoccupied with trying to keep Lance from shoving him off the counter.

“Today's prom.”

“Should we disappear for the day?” Keith asks.

“Can't,” Lance says. “Izzy needs the truck.”

“Caterina has the rental, right?”

“Nah, returned it yesterday, since she's mostly staying around the house.”

“Damn,” Keith breathes out. “My speed—”

“It'll be fine,” Lance interrupts, a certain pleading in his voice. “Besides, Isabella's not a kid, and neither are her friends. I kinda wanna meet them?”

Keith lets out a soft pained noise. “Okay,” he relents. “I'm mostly sure you just want to do someone's hair.”

Lance stays silent for a moment. “Guilty,” he admits.

Keith laughs, a breathless noise, and presses a kiss to Lance's temple.

 

The house is theirs, quiet, for what seems to be only a moment. Hunk, Caterina, and Lance's mother slip away to buy groceries, as well as to drop off Jonathon, the youngest Espinoza, at a friend's for the night. Seeing as the house is going to be filled with Isabella's friends today, it seemed only fair.

The door bursts open.

Lance gets up from the opposite side of the couch, where he had been absently poking at Keith's shins with his toes, trying to distract Keith from a book he's definitely paying attention to.

“This is my brother, Lance,” Isabella introduces, leading her group of friends into the living room. “And that's his fiance, Keith.”

“Your brother is gay?” says one of the girls who just walked in.

“No,” says Lance. “Her brother is pansexual. Keith's the gay one.”

Keith glances over at the entourage, and shrugs. “Don't speak in third person,” he tells Lance, and then returns to trying to read.

“I—sorry, I didn't mea—”

“Wait, holy _shit_ ,” breathes out another. “Lance _Espinoza_. Like, _the_ Lance Espinoza? Iz, your brother is _Lance_?”

“I have no idea what that's supposed to mean,” Isabella says.

“My sister is at the Garrison—there's rumors that two of the Paladins came back a couple weeks ago, and—”

“Not our finest moment,” Lance interrupts nonchalantly.

Keith's attention is on Lance in an instant, body tuned to recognize the strain in Lance's voice hidden under indifference. He feels himself tense, and drops the book in his hands into his lap, effectively losing his place, to avoid burning it out of pure reaction.

Lance turns to him, offers a soft smile—one that doesn't reach his eyes, but is enough to reassure.

“Do you really have powers?”

Lance turns back to Isabella's friend. He swallows, watching her for a moment, regarding the excitement in her gaze, the eagerness in her voice. “We both do,” Lance says softly.

“Can—”

“No,” Keith interrupts. “We are not demonstrating.”

Lance starts slightly, as if he'd forgotten Keith was there.

“They aren't toys,” Keith continues. “They aren't party tricks. What we have is destruction incarnate, and we don't perform on command.”

Lance breathes out a long sigh, accompanied by a low whistle of noise. “Keith... isn't wrong, but...” Lance shrugs softly. “Isabella, go get a bottle of water.”

“Lance,” Keith says.

“I'm fine,” Lance replies without looking at him, while Isabella disappears into the kitchen. His gaze remains on the three girls in the entryway. “What are your names?”

“Grace,” answers the one who first spoke up.

The excited one: “I'm Lizz.”

And the one, quiet and reserved, who had yet to speak: “My name's, uh, Katie.”

Keith feels all the air whoosh out of him.

Lance looks stricken, but only for a moment. Except that Keith can feel the chill in the air, feels gooseflesh erupt over his skin, sensitive to the cold. Lance gets it under control a second later, but Keith _knows_.

“Here,” Isabella says, returning with a bottle and handing it to Lance.

“Thanks,” Lance chokes out.

“Party tricks,” Keith mumbles, half directed at Lance.

Lance ignores him in favor of uncapping the bottle of water and pouring it out on the carpet.

But it never reaches the floor, because in a heartbeat and a breath of frost, the cascade of liquid is frozen in place, one long arch between the neck of the bottle and where it hangs, glistening in the air.

“ _Holy shit_ ,” chorus Isabella's friends.

“Right,” says Lance after a moment, looking down at the ice, unable to unfreeze it without making a mess. “I didn't think this through.”

“Just throw it outside,” Keith tells him.

“But it's perfectly good water,” Lance argues.

“It's _water_ ,” Keith stresses. “There's enough to go around. Even in Texas.”

“You take it,” Lance says. “I know you need it.”

“I'm not doing it with an audience.”

“Then we'll go start getting ready,” Lance replies, gentle. “You need this.”

Keith glares at him, somewhere between mad at Lance for caving to the wants of these teenagers, to the fame and misfortune, and mad at Lance for being right, for knowing Keith so well.

“Fine,” he bites out, tossing the book from his lap as he gets up. He takes the bottle from Lance's hands with more force than necessary.

Lance's gaze stays on him for a moment before he turns to Isabella. “I still have some of that hair gel from Vel'it, if you want to use it.”

“Oh, God,” Isabella whispers. “ _Please._ That stuff is stunning. Guys, come on, Lance has the best hair products.”

“Just hair products?” Lance says, mock offended. “I have the best everything.”

“You're kidding, right?” says Grace.

“Not in the least,” Lance returns, motioning for them to follow. “Come on.”

Isabella helps shoo the group after Lance, disappearing into the rest of the house, probably aiming for the upstairs bathroom that has all of Lance's beauty products scattered across the counter. Keith sighs as they leave, feeling some of the previously unconscious strain drip from his shoulders. He turns, making his way outside, still clutching onto some form of modern art ice sculpture.

It's cold against his fingertips, a stark contrast to the looming Texas summer and the fire in his blood. Any other time, he'd pull it back. Any other time, he'd rein in this impossible, wild heat. Instead, Keith lifts the bottle, weight shifting as he holds up the ice, and skims the palm of his hand over it, once, before settling it underneath the curve of ice. He feels the flare of the ignition in his heart, lets Red's essence leap from his throat and burst from his fingertips.

Steam rises in puffs, flames licking higher, chasing water's makeshift smoke. The bottle in his hand crackles, melts against the fire, turns black against his skin. It burns, it chars, it scars.

There is nothing—nothing—this flame will not consume, Keith recognizes. There is nothing safe from his blazing heart, and yet he's still treated as a magician. There is no glory in his fire, but—

“It's beautiful,” Katie says. Katie, Isabella's friend. Katie, who is not Keith's Katie. Katie who is someone else, someone different.

Keith glances over at her, standing in the doorway, looking small. Perhaps everyone appears small to him now. He's faced far too many giants.

“The lion's gifts tore us apart,” Keith tells her, turning back to the bottle. He lets the heat increase, flames rising higher, and the bottle melts away.

“I'm sorry,” she says, because that's what you say to strangers when you don't understand their pain. Perhaps because you don't understand their pain.

Keith presses his lips together, turns away from Katie, and lets the heat take over. It burns along his skin, smoke that was once the fabric of his clothes dancing high into the air. It burns, this dragon fire, tearing him apart, cauterizing the wounds of his heart. Fierceness and flames, and Keith's tears evaporate before they even touch his cheekbones.

It burns.

Keith thinks of Shiro.

“Does it make it any less beautiful?”

 

“How are you feeling?” Lance asks, wrapping his arms around Keith's shoulders.

The weight presses Keith against the porch railing, wood poking into his stomach, but he lets Lance lean on him anyway.

Keith lets out a sigh. “I wish we could have run.”

Lance drops his head into the crook of Keith's neck and shoulder. He plants a kiss there, brushing Keith's hair away with his nose. “You always do,” he whispers.

Keith makes a humming noise, tilting his head to give Lance more room.

Thunder claps, a deafening boom in the silence.

“The girls are quiet,” Keith observes.

“I think they're trading gossip and school crushes and that sort of nonsense,” Lance says, glancing up to the sky. “That or they knocked out. Wouldn't be surprised. They looked beat after the dance.”

“Is it tiring?” Keith asks. “Dancing?”

“In general, yes,” Lance says. “I wouldn't know specifically for prom, though. Never been. They don't really have that in space.”

“No, suppose not,” Keith murmurs. He tips his head back as thunder rolls across the sky and watches as lightning flashes through the clouds.

Lance presses another kiss to Keith's neck. “You didn't answer me.”

“Hm?”

“How are you?”

“Better. It's quiet now.”

Lance breathes against his shoulder. “Good,” he says. “I heard you burned yourself up earlier.”

Keith tries not to flinch and fails. He ends up pressing his weight into Lance, and Lance shifts to support him.

“It's okay,” Lance tells him, moving so that his cheek is rested against Keith's head. “It's okay, I've got you.”

“What are we, Lance?” Keith asks, staring at the murky darkness of the sky, just as the first drops of rain begin to fall.

“I don't know,” Lance tells him. “I don't know. The remnants of a war too great for any of us to face.”

“We were never ready,” Keith says.

“No,” Lance says. “We weren't.”

Keith thinks of Shiro, hidden away somewhere. Has he, in his isolation, come to terms with what tattered remains of them is left? Perhaps he found some solace in running away. God knows Keith wants to run from everything every damn day.

Thunder booms again.

“The universe was never our friend,” Lance says quietly. His arms tighten around Keith. “But we found friends in the most unlikely of places. We still have that going for us.”

“I would never have fallen in love with you,” Keith says. Rain splatters harder against the dry ground, the first of summer storms, warm and wet and filled with longing and promise.

“Honestly?” Lance hums. “I don't know if I'm worth it. I love you, so much, Keith. But if you not loving me also meant you never had to go through any of the shit we faced, I would take that trade any day. You deserve better.”

“So do you,” Keith tells him. “I'd do it, too. The trade.”

“I think that's just it,” Lance says. “I think the reason we'd make the trade is _because_ we love each other. It's the irony that makes it so bitter.”

Keith swallows, and rests his hands over Lance's arms, where they're wrapped snugly around him. “How are you?”

“I'm fine.”

“I noticed you go cold, when Katie introduced herself.”

“I'm fine,” Lance says, with more sincerity put into his tone. “Just caught me off guard. I—sometimes I remember. Too vivid. We waited. Sometimes I wonder if they were alive when Green brought them back. Sometimes I wonder if I'd gone in earlier if I could have saved them.”

“Allura saved them.”

“I know, but...”

“It's not the same,” Keith states. “I know.”

“Katie is smart, and beautiful, and I love her, but... There's always something missing. You can't make an exchange like that and not expect some things to be lost in translation. Katie isn't Pidge, and Katie isn't Allura, either.”

“No,” says Keith. “She's both. What's left of them.”

“That's just it,” Lance says. “What's left.”

“Isn't that what we are?” Keith whispers, words directed at the lightning-streaked sky. “Aren't we what's left?”

Lance takes in a breath that shakes through them both.

Suddenly, Keith is being dragged out into the rain.

“What—”

“Come on,” says Lance, letting his arms fall from around Keith, instead taking his hand and making him stumble down the few steps into the front yard. “It's prom night. Dance with me.”

“We're already soaked,” Keith tells him.

Lance turns and raises their joined hands, the other settling against Keith's waist. “Then there's no harm in staying out,” Lance says. “Can't get more wet if we're already soaked.”

Keith raises an eyebrow at Lance, but his bangs are falling into his face because of the water so he's not sure if Lance can even see the motion. “Fine. I guess.”

Lance grins, and the smile is brighter than the flash of lightning behind him.

“If we get struck by lightning, I'm not saving you from being burnt to a crisp.”

“I'm pretty sure most people don't actually die from lightning strikes,” Lance says, nudging Keith's feet with his, trying to coax him into moving. “Come on, you remember the ballroom dances Allura made us learn.”

“Shiro and Allura always were best at them,” Keith says, settling his free hand on Lance's shoulder. “I don't know if I actually remember much.”

“That's why I'm leading,” Lance says.

Slowly, Lance gets them both moving—some sort of swaying as the rain falls around them.

“Remember when you partnered with Pidge?” Lance asks, a breathless chuckle underlying his voice. “When Pidge kept stepping on your feet and you threatened to th—”

Lance's words are lost to the clap of thunder, but Keith remembers what he's talking about. Because Keith and Pidge are the closest in terms of height, so they'd been partnered up, except they were also the worst at dancing. It had ended in disaster and mock threats being hurled from both parties. Keith distinctly remembers accusing Pidge of stepping on his feet as payback for accidentally insulting their tech the week before, and then had proceeded to threaten to throw them across the training room.

Needless to say, Lance and Pidge were soon afterward partnered up instead.

What can Keith say? He was frustrated. Dancing is not his forte, especially under a time pressure to learn. The alliance ceremony they needed it for was three days after that particular event.

Lance leans his forehead against Keith's. “We had some good times, too.”

Despite the rain, the weight of memory, the fire still singing his nostrils and heart, Keith smiles.

“Yeah,” he tells Lance. “I'm glad Katie at least remembers some of them.”

Keith thinks of Shiro.

He wonders if memory is the reason Shiro left. He wonders if memory is enough to bring him back.

Lance, like the romantic idiot he is, dips Keith and proceeds to kiss him in the rain. They end up slipping, and going back into the house not only wet, but also covered in mud and grass.

 

Two weeks, six invitation designs, and one “Sup, Fuckers, I parked my castle on the street,” later, Katie comes bursting into the Espinoza household like she just got back from a mission, paladin armor and all.

Behind her, more careful, especially considering her large frame, is Shay, all smiles and soft gazes, another pair of earrings set upon her head, a mark of progress, of growth. Lance gets caught up in the excitement, and while he's distracted, Keith manages to hit submit on the final page of their online order for wedding invitations because he refuses to spend another hour arguing with Lance over the intricacies of filigree. He slips over to the group quietly, inserting himself but not intruding.

Shay offers him a friendly smile, and Keith sends her one back.

Lance scoops Katie into a hug—she's a bit too tall now to lift off the ground, but that doesn't stop Lance from using his momentum to spin them both around. In a moment, she's laughing, squeezing him back with too-strong limbs, expression set with happiness.

When they pull apart, Katie settles her hands on Lance's shoulders, keeping him close. The corners of her eyes crinkle with excitement, accented by Altean marks, bright against her skin. “I missed you,” she says, awed, breathless.

“I missed you too,” Lance sniffs, and runs his fingers, impressed, through her hair, grown out well below her shoulder blades. There's silver dusting through the ginger, now, and Lance lets it slip from his palm. “You look gorgeous.”

Katie cocks her head to the side, as if puzzled by Lance's words. “Thank you,” she says, soft and without much feeling. “Oh! I got you something shiny!”

“Shiny?” Lance echoes, smiling.

“Shiny,” Katie confirms, and starts rummaging through a pouch at her waist. It looks familiar.

Keith's brow furrows. “Is that mine?”

Katie glances over at him for a moment, and then continues looking through the bag. “I hope you don't mind,” she says. “You left it on the castle. I figured it would be better put to use.”

“It's fine,” Keith says, and something in his heart warms. “I'm glad you like it.”

“I made a few modifications, of course,” Katie adds.

“Of course you did,” Keith tells her, but it doesn't matter because she finds what she's looking for with a soft noise of success and completely disregards their current conversation.

“Here,” she tells Lance, presenting him with a small box. “I got it from the Vasili. It's not as high tech as I might have expected from them, but... It _is_ pretty, and I know how much you fancied them.”

“Their parties were luxurious,” Lance murmurs, brushing his fingers over the fine craftsmanship of the box in his hands. It's material is otherworldly—somewhere between metal and wood, but unlike either in its entirety. The first time Voltron had visited with them, Pidge had marveled over their skill with machines, with materials, with all things sentient or otherwise.

“I got something for you, too, Keith,” Katie says. “But it's in the castle, unfortunately. I couldn't fit it in my pouch.”

“That's fine,” Keith tells her. “Thank you.”

Lance finally opens the box, letting the top half tilt away, some intricate mechanical work unnecessary for such a simple thing, but perhaps there is a beauty in that, too. Something Hunk would appreciate far more.

“Oh,” breathes out Lance, fingers slipping over the delicately woven chain. It shimmers gold, like the markings some Valisi wear over their bodies, limbs adorned with metallic hues inlaid in skin. At it's end is a teardrop of starlight, pearlescent sparkle dancing over Lance's cheekbones. “ _Oh_.”

“Look,” says Katie. “Touch it.”

Lance carefully pushes his fingers against the pendant. It's no bigger than his thumb, and it rolls away when he pushes against it, but for a moment it goes dazzlingly violet.

“You remember those mood rings that were big when we were kids?” Katie says softly. “It's like those, but it actually works. Or—so I'm told. Also, uh, when you're sad it turns blue... It reminded me of rain. I remember how much you used to miss the rain.”

“Thank you,” Lance chokes out, and carefully draws the necklace from its case. Keith helpfully takes the case from him so his hands are free to clasp the necklace on. It lands just below the hollow of his throat, purple dancing across his skin.

Katie smiles at him, soft and fond and genuine. “I hope you like it.”

“I love it,” Lance says, and kisses her on the cheek. “Now, please tell Keith that filigree has to include leaves.”

Keith meets Lance's gaze for a split second, and grins.

Lance's eyes widen, comically. “You fucking didn't! Keith, no! That's it, wedding's canceled. Sorry to bring you all the way out from fucking _outer space_ , Katie, but Keith has just ordered the most atrocious wedding invitations and I have to call everything off.”

“You don't even know which ones I picked,” Keith argues.

Lance's gaze narrows. “Option number four, with embossing, gold lettering.”

Keith opens his mouth, and then closes it.

“There's a reason I'm engaged to you, you sneaky motherfucker.”

Keith lets out an annoyed huff. “At least we finally ordered _something_.”

“ _We_?” Lance echoes incredulously. “ _We_ did not order anything!”

And here we go.

The argument is more fun than anything, but it still lasts another hour.

They really haven't changed.

 

The castle lights glow and eerily familiar blue, tinted with memory and ghosts.

“Here,” says Katie, almost sheepishly. She holds out an oblong item, wrapped loosely in cloth.

Keith takes it, careful, and slowly lifts the fabric away. The glint of dark purple underneath makes his breath hitch, some mix of longing, anticipation, and sorrow.

“I managed to convince the Blades to give me another one,” Katie explains. “Wasn't easy, but... I know how fond you were of the first one. I thought you might like a replacement.”

Keith breathes out some sound of appreciation, letting the cloth fall to the floor as he tests the weight of the Luxite blade in the hand. Almost as soon as he reaches forward and removes the sheath, it activates, scattering light across Katie's unflinching expression.

“You're welcome to try it out,” Katie offers. “I think the castle misses you.”

Keith swallows past the lump in his throat. There's a phantom ache in his shoulder.

“I'm good,” he says.

Katie's eyes narrow. “No,” she says. “You're not. Come on.”

“It's fine, really,” Keith insists, attempting to sheath the blade, except that Katie has a hand wrapped around his wrist, preventing him. And now she's dragging him through the castle.

“I'm not an idiot,” Katie hisses as she tugs him along. “I know when you're hurting. I've always known.”

“Who?” Keith bites back, and immediately regrets it.

“What?” Katie stops and whirls to face him.

Keith turns away. “Nothing.”

“No,” she says. “You've always been honest with me.”

“I've always been honest with _Pidge_ ,” Keith growls, and then clamps his mouth shut.

Katie's face goes oddly neutral. “You're sparring with Lance.”

Keith crosses his arms, Marmoran blade sticking awkwardly out from where his hand is tucked behind his elbow. “No.”

“You're hurting. I see it,” Katie states. “You need to blow off some steam.”

“Not like that. I'm not a paladin anymore.”

One of Katie's eyebrows twitches upwards. “Maybe not,” she allows, “But you're still Keith.”

Keith's heart clenches with something vicious, and before he can respond, Katie's dragging him towards the training room.

Lance is already there, lazily stretching. He turns when Keith enters the room and smiles.

None of them have their bayards, but Allura had once trained Lance to use her staff. It was partly for fun, partly because Lance has always been just a little bit infatuated with her, even after he and Keith started dating, and partly because Lance's close combat has always really fucking sucked. Now, he goes to retrieve a familiar weapon, once Allura's.

“Think you can take me?” he teases, grin wide.

Keith glares at him. “I'm not going to fight you.”

“Come on,” Lance coaxes, eyes pleading. Keith's resolve is already faltering. “Time to put your money where your mouth is.”

Keith quirks an eyebrow at him. “And where have I been putting my mouth recently?”

“Well, I can name a few places...” Lance starts, and then darts forward, striking out with his staff.

Keith dodges to the side. His body longs for this. His skin tingles with the threat of flame. It's the fight. The adrenaline. The rush of _survive, survive, survive_. His blood sings with it.

Lance pushes again, and Keith parries with the blade. The sharp ring of weapons meeting makes his heart pound. He remembers this. He remembers this. Age old and carved into his bones is the instinct and drive and passion and fear. It's all there, the taste of metal on his tongue. The growl of something Galran in his chest.

And then:

“I know you can do it!” Katie calls to one of them. It doesn't matter who.

“No!” Keith growls suddenly, whirling to face Katie. Lance stumbles past him, aborting whatever move he was in the middle of.

Smoke rises off Keith, tendrils curling to the high ceiling. It flows from his mouth, spitting soot and flame. “No,” he states again. “You keep saying shit like that. You keep saying how you remember. How you know. But you're not Allura and you sure as fucking hell aren't Pidge, so stop _acting_ like it!”

Katie blinks, once, slowly.

The fire tugs and fights and pulls. Keith feels it tear his heart, his skin. The scent of singed fabric hits him, and the heat leaps from his being.

Katie's lips curve into a smile, soft and fond and genuine. “There,” she says. “ _There_.”

“Fuck you,” Keith spits.

“I'm sorry I'm not Pidge,” Katie says. “And I'm not Allura, either. I know I'm not. And maybe I'm not really both of them together. But I do know that they are part of me. They still fight, sometimes. We've grown together, all three of us. Pidge—what's left of them. Allura, whatever is left of her. And whatever I am.”

“Stop it,” Keith growls, mostly because he knows Katie's right. The flames burn higher, leaping from his fingertips. They curl around his arms, dance along his shoulders. They consume, _they consume_.

“I'm sorry,” Katie says. “That I will never be what you want me to be.”

Keith presses his lips together and looks away.

“You hate it,” she continues. “That you don't know how to love me. Pidge knows you loved them. Allura, too. But I'm not them, and you've never expected me to be. But you don't know how to love me anymore.”

Keith's grip on the Marmoran blade tightens. “Shut up.”

“So stop trying,” Katie tells him. “You don't need to love me. It's okay. It's okay.”

“Stop,” Keith says, and throws the blade.

It lands solidly against the wall, sticking there for a moment before clattering to the floor, but not before it slices through the fabric of Katie's shoulder pad. Underneath, her skin peeks out, red blooming from the new wound.

She didn't move.

Keith was expecting her to move.

And now she's going to scold him, or erupt in fury. Allura, or Pidge, or...

“You don't know me anymore, Keith,” she says. “It's okay to need time for that. And it's okay if you hate me, too.”

“I don't hate you,” Keith says.

“Then we have two months to get to know each other.”

Keith blinks. There are tears gathering in his eyes. The heat makes them evaporate before they fall.

Katie walks towards him, ignoring the flames, much to Keith's dismay, but she pushes through them, immune, and puts her hand on his cheek. “Your heart,” she says. “Has always burned far more fiercely than any gift from the red lion. You let your flames run their course. You burn and you fight, but you don't feel.”

Katie smiles at him. The fire retreats, contented with its calamity.

“You're allowed to feel, too.”

This time, when they come, the tears fall.

 

Shay looks up at the stars, shoulders rising with joy.

Keith glances at her out of the corner of his eyes. He's never really known if Shay actually breathes, but right now, he imagines her taking in a deep breath, as if she's breathing in the stardust and saving it inside herself, where no one else can take it from her.

Shay turns from the sky, bright gaze falling on Keith. Keith lets it weigh him, measure his soul and gauge that which remains.

“Something's missing,” Shay observes quietly, in the same soft-spoken manner she uses with friends. Because they friends. Because they've both been through so much. Because no one else understands.

“Yeah,” Keith murmurs. He doesn't look away. But he doesn't add anything else. He lets Shay find her way. She always does.

“Shiro,” she says finally. “Unless it is Katie. But Katie is more than the sum of parts. I do not understand. It must be Shiro.”

“Yes,” Keith answers. “We can't find him. Not since we got back.”

“That was some time ago, yes? For humans? Why do you not ask your Earth?”

“It's not the same,” Keith tells her. “It's not like the Balmera. Not alive.”

Shay's head tilts, confused. She kneels, running her palms over the ground. The grass is closed against the moonlight, but Keith knows it's dry from the recent lack of rain and summer sun. Still, it grows, barely, in the heat. Shay runs it between her fingers, caressing.

“This lives,” she says. “So do your trees and forests and lakes. So much more lives than on the Balmera. Does your Earth not live too?”

“No,” Keith says, a little tiredly. He's too exhausted from existing to even be impatient with her. After burning up and breaking down earlier, Keith is reminded why he prefers solitude. “No, it's just a rock.”

“So is the Balmera. Who are you to say your Earth does not feel? Does not _know_?”

“It's _dead_ , Shay.”

“Have you asked it?”

“There's no point.”

“Sit,” Shay orders, in that same quiet friend-voice. And yet, it's an order.

Weary to his bones, Keith lets his legs give out from under him. He lands harshly against the drought-hard ground, grass crunching where his knees crush the life from the gentle blades. “What do you want from me.”

Shay pins him with a level expression, and even in its serenity, there's something fierce in her gaze.

“A little faith.”

Keith lets his eyes slip closed, a breath like a sigh falling past his lips. Lance is probably already in bed, and Keith really should go inside and go to sleep, too. He's tired. He's so tired.

He puts his palms against the crisp grass. Fine, he'll humor Shay. And then go back to this silent, painful resignation. Let these stones be cast against his flesh, but at least it will be over soon enough, when his skin grows unfeeling from scars.

“I... Uh, I need to find Shiro.” Keith licks his lips. “Can you help with that... Earth?”

“Names are trivial,” Shay says quietly, as if trying not to interrupt his commune with the dirt. “Tell it who Shiro is. Who he is to you.”

“Right,” Keith says. “Okay, so... I need to find my friend. Friend isn't quite right. He's more than that. He's, uh... He's the reason I'm who I am today. He was only person who ever meant something to me at one point. He's the greatest person I've ever met, and—and I... I need him. I need him here. I n-need to know if he—if he's a-alive. If he's okay.”

Halfway through, Keith realizes he's choking on sobs. He tastes salt where his tears slip over the contours of his cheekbones and between his lips. He can't stop now.

“God, I just... I need to tell him I'm sorry. Whatever it is I fucked up, I need to make it right. I need him. I need him, and I hate it, but God damn it, he's my best friend. I need him here. I—fuck, _I miss him_. For Christ's sake, Shiro, where are you? _Where are you_?”

The anguish in Keith's heart simmers into anger. He balls his hands into fists, ripping grass from it's roots.

“Well?” he hisses. “Well, where is he?” Keith slams his hand against the ground, and suddenly he's screeching into the sky. “Tell me, damn it! If there's an answer, tell me! I c-can't—where is he?”

Keith cries out, something guttural and bone-chilling. He feels flame dance under the prison of his skin, and only barely manages to pull it back before it flares up.

“There is an answer,” Shay says softly, kneeling next to Keith. She brings up one large hand and gently places it against his chest. “There is an answer.”

Keith shakes his head, vision blurry with tears as he looks up to meet Shay's gaze. “No, no...”

“Here,” Shay insists.

“No,” Keith says, choking on a sob. He's shaking, though he doesn't entirely process what that means, or why. “No, that's dead, too.”

The world is desolate enough to deny him, even this.

Shay carefully gathers Keith into her arms and carries him back into the house.

 

Keith's days are marked by progress on wedding plans. They're getting there, at a steady pace, to something decisive. A date's been set, tentatively, and at some point over the past few weeks, Matt and Coran showed up after finishing whatever project they'd been working on until very recently.

Things are going as well as can be expected.

And then they aren't.

Somehow the Garrison finds out, and instantly they want in on the fame. Some sort of credit for the paladin's journey, even when it should be fucking over.

Lance tries to grin and bear it, but Keith feels the way his skin goes cold every time there's a knock on their door.

Keith keeps trying to find someone to blame. Maybe Matt. Maybe some of Isabella's friends. But then blame doesn't get him anywhere, and it shouldn't matter. It _shouldn't matter_ , but it does. It still does, and he hates it and it's too much and—

“Keith.” Lance's breath fans across his lips. “Hey, Babe. You okay?”

Keith inhales slowly. He nods.

Lance moves over him, the warmth of his body pressing Keith into the sheets, and kisses Keith's jaw, lips just was warm as the rest of him.

“Hey,” Keith murmurs, refusing to open his eyes.

“Hi,” Lance says, leaving another kiss on the column of Keith's neck.

Keith tilts his head back to give Lance better access, humming out a pleased noise.

Lance takes the invitation, lazily pressing kisses into Keith's skin. He takes his time: stains the warmth of his lips on Keith's neck before he bites down. Pressure, pressure, the spark of pain, and then Lance soothes over the spot with his tongue. It leaves tender marks of arousal, and Keith revels it.

Revels in the reminder of bruises and pain and pleasure and being _alive_.

Keith reaches up and drags his nails on Lance's shoulder blades. Lance nips at the cusp of his ear.

Keith sighs and opens his eyes. Lance blinks back at him in the moonlight. “There are too many people in this house for us to have sex,” Keith deadpans.

Lance pauses for a moment, calculating, and then huffs out some sort of annoyed noise. “Damn it.” He flops to Keith's side, landing on Keith's arm and then wriggling until he squeezes himself between Keith's body and aforementioned arm. “Don't suppose you'd be willing to head to the Castle?”

Keith snorts.

“Come on,” Lance coaxes. His tone is joking, but it still falls a little flat. “We still have our rooms in there.”

“No,” Keith whispers, closing his eyes again.

“Just like old days.”

“The old days aren't necessarily better ones.”

Lance goes quiet after that. He knows it's true.

“I can't do this,” Keith announces. “I need a break. This is why we wanted to leave in the first place. There's too much.”

“We could take off,” Lance offers. “Take the car. Or your speeder.”

“Don't tempt me,” Keith warns.

“I'm serious. We could just... go. For a couple of days, at least. It's wearing on me, too, the publicity. It's only a matter of time before someone we know shows up. Sam Holt and Katie in the same room? Yeah, I don't want to be here when that happens.”

“Or Iverson,” Keith says, and flinches before he can stop himself. “Fuck. No.”

“Tomorrow, we can leave. We can take your speeder and you can go as fast as you want for as long as you want.”

“If you give me that much free reign, we'll never stop,” Keith says quietly.

Lance sighs, and turns on his back, trapping Keith's arm under his neck. “I'm almost tempted to say that's the best plan.”

“Running never got us anywhere,” Keith says.

“No,” Lance agrees, “But damn if it doesn't feel better than dealing with all this shit.” He sighs again, heavier this time. “Where do you want to go?”

Keith tries to shrug but fails because Lance's weight is greater than his shoulder strength. “What about the beach? We still have that vacation house thing from a while back, right?”

“Oh yeah,” Lance says, recalling the quiet little beach house they'd bought when they'd first settled back on Earth and needed a getaway when Lance's family got to be too much. “It's summer, though. There will be a lot of people there.”

“As long as we can hide,” Keith says. “I just... Don't want to be me for a little while. I wanna stop caring.”

“Okay,” Lance says, turning to kiss Keith's shoulder. “Yeah, we can go hide. Maybe for a bit we can pretend we're normal.”

Keith snorts. “Go to sleep, Lance.”

 

The beach-tinted air is filled with the taste of salt and summer fun. Some yards away, there's a group of teenagers playing volleyball, and the scent of barbecue hits Keith from somewhere out of sight. For the first time in a while, breathing deep doesn't feel like trying to lift the weight of the world off of his lungs.

Lance is in the process of toeing off his shoes, likely preparing to run right into the ocean even though he's not wearing swimwear.

“You look happier,” Lance observes, though he doesn't look up from where he's trying to balance on one foot to take his sock off. Instinctively, he reaches out and clutches at Keith's shoulder when he almost topples.

“I think I am,” Keith says. He watches Lance finally free his toes and dig them into the warm sand. “Taking the speeder helped. It's as close as I'll ever get to flying again.”

Lance looks at him with a quiet concern. Some of it stems from connection, from empathy—the fact that Lance, too, wishes the stars would take him back but knows they never will. His hand is still on Keith's shoulder, a comfort. His grip tightens, just slightly.

Keith turns with the intention of smiling at Lance, but instead lets out a panicked noise as his heart leaps into his throat.

Lance picks him up bridal style—ironic, no?—and runs into the water.

“Lance, no!” Keith screeches at him, clutching at his shoulders.

Lance's only response is a hearty laugh. His chest rumbles with it, though the sound is lost to the crash of waves.

When the water gets too deep for Lance to run through it, he promptly drops Keith into the ocean spray.

Keith comes up spluttering salt water from his lips. He runs his hands through wet bangs to get them out of his face, and then lunges at Lance.

It takes a struggle, but Keith's close combat has always been better than Lance's, and eventually he goes down. Keith shoves him into the water, laughter bubbling from his chest. The back of his throat stings with swallowed seawater, but damn it, he actually feels _happy_.

For a moment, they've escaped it all.

 

“The fuck is that?” Lance asks against Keith's shoulder. His chest is pressed close against Keith's back. It's really not necessary, given there's plenty of room on the speeder, but they both like it better this way. Even if Keith won't admit it.

Squinting into the wind, Keith peers at the figure in Lance's driveway. He feels his breath catch.

“Holy shit.”

“I'm not seeing shit, right?” Lance's voice is raised to be heard over the rush of wind.

Keith ignores his question. He has half a mind to just jump off the speeder as it goes by, but that would probably get him hurt and would also probably result in Lance crashing his speeder. So he turns the thrusters to slow to a stop. He kills the engine, and then stares.

He's frozen. Awed, maybe.

Probably at least a little angry. Tears threaten at the corner of Keith's eyes.

Because there, standing in Lance's south Texan country driveway, is Shiro.

Lance hops off and rushes to throw his arms enthusiastically around their visitor. He almost feels like a stranger.

“You came! God, it's good to see you.”

“You too,” Shiro says, smiling down at him. He takes the opportunity to ruffle Lance's hair, and Lance punches his shoulder lightly in response.

“We just got back from South Padre,” Lance explains. He glances back at Keith. “I'll take stuff inside and give you two a bit.”

Keith climbs down from the speeder as Lance grabs their travel bags and heads inside. He still can't find words. They all die on the tip of his tongue.

“Hey,” Shiro says.

“You—” Keith manages. He coughs, picks up the pieces of his sanity off the ground. “What the fuck, Shiro? Why are you here?”

“Well, last I heard, for a wedding,” Shiro says. “Unless you reconsidered after spending the weekend with Lance.”

Reeling, Keith stares at him. “I—what—how?”

“I, uh...” Shiro rubs the back of his neck with his hand. “I saw you two on the news, actually. I occasionally keep up with Garrison headlines, and there was an announcement congratulating you two.”

Keith shakes his head, incredulous. “We've been trying to find you for forever. Even Katie couldn't track you down.”

“I might have found myself a new identity.”

“For Christ's sake. Why? Where the fuck were you?”

“You thought Red's powers were bad, but I can tear someone apart at the seams,” Shiro says softly. “That sort of thing weighs on you, so I ran.”

Keith feels tears well up in his eyes again, but he tries his best to hold him back. He sniffles, involuntary. “But we're—”

“We're not a team anymore,” Shiro interrupts, tone a bit airy. “Not everything has to depend upon each other.”

Keith stares at him for a moment, and then looks away. His voice goes soft, any anger he might have felt at Shiro melted into faint memory. “Maybe not a team. But we _are_ friends.”

At that, Shiro goes quiet.

Just before the silence begins to stretch, Shiro continues. “I know you feel like you owe me some sort of allegiance, but you can't stay dependent on me. It's not healthy for either of us. I needed time to figure shit out, and you need to learn to stand on your own feet.”

Keith huffs out a warm breath. “You've got it wrong. I don't need you, not like that. I have Lance. I have a _family_ here, Shiro. I have people who care and people who I care about and I'm safe and, well, I _should_ be happy.”

The tears spill over. Keith's breath catches on them. “I just wanted to make sure you were fucking _okay_. I can have a life without you. But I don't want you to just disappear out of my life again. I can do that. If you have to leave, fine, _go_. But at least fucking tell me. At least give me a promise that one day you'll come back.”

“I don't know if I can—”

“Bullshit,” Keith spits. “We fought a war for the universe and won. If you can't promise me you're coming back, then you better damn well promise me a goodbye.”

Shiro presses his lips together. Keith can't tell if he's just thinking or if he's actually angry.

“I'll stay for the wedding,” Shiro says, toneless.

“And after that?”

“I don't know.”

Keith feels heat curl in his heart. “Fine.”

He walks into the house, leaving Shiro in the driveway.

 

The day before the wedding, Lance is in an absolute panic. There are about twenty relatives squished into Lance's living room, all trying to share their (unwanted) input on this or that thing. Some cousin won't like the catering. Some aunt is distinctly disagreeable with the tailor they got for the suits. Some niece is unhappy about not being a bridesmaid except for the fact that neither Lance nor Keith is a bride, so moot point anyway.

Needless to say, if Keith hears a single person complain about the color scheme, he'll go nuts. They spent way to long picking out everything to match that lavender they'd picked at the beginning of summer. It feels so long ago, with September creeping up on them.

Not that it matters, anyway, because no one remembers to tell Texas it's supposed to get cold until halfway through December.

Keith hasn't sat down for at least six hours. If he hasn't been appeasing various members of Lance's extended family, or at least showing face because most of them haven't met him, then he's doing something actually productive. He's been playing delivery boy for various supplies, showing up at the venue for the reception to make sure everything is in order, or playing wedding planner liaison so that everything actually gets there tomorrow.

He's barely seen Lance today, much less Shiro. But in the single moment they've had together, Shiro had grabbed Keith's arm, met his gaze, and said: “I'm sorry.”

Keith stared right back and answered, “Then do something about it.”

 

A round of applause brings Keith's awareness back to his surroundings.

“I think I blacked out,” Keith whispers, only half-joking. “What happened?”

“You were perfect,” Lance says, eyes still glistening with happy tears. He holds Keith's face in his hands. His eyes search Keith's, find love kept there. “You are perfect. God, I love you.”

This definitely isn't scripted, but fuck it. They're supposed to be walking down the aisle together. God knows Lance's young nephews are dying to get outside because sitting and watching adults do anything is _boring_ , but Keith can't bring himself to care about what he's supposed to be doing right now.

He's married. He and Lance are married.

So damn it, if he wants to kiss his husband, he's going to.

Lance lets out a mildly surprised but ultimately pleased hum when Keith grabs him by his tie and tugs him down. Their lips meet without an ounce of kindness, all heat and fire and ferocity, because Keith is all heat and fire and ferocity.

Lance wraps his arms around Keith and pulls him in. They've done this a million times and promised each other a million more.

“Alright, Lovebirds,” Katie calls from the audience. “Pack it up so we can get to the cake.”

Keith doesn't want to stop kissing Lance, but he starts laughing which makes it especially difficult to continue. So instead, breathless, he grabs Lance hand and together they make their way to the reception.

Married.

 

Keith gets approximately halfway through his champagne before someone across the room screams.

Years of being a paladin are hard-wired into him. Keith bolts.

And is almost immediately wrapped in a hug. There's a sword hilt poking into his ribcage.

“Keith,” Kolivan greets.

Which definitely explains the scream. Coran and Katie look human enough to pass, and Shay is gentle enough to not cause any major drama. At the worst, she's simply ignored.

But Kolivan in full battle gear is a particularly intimidating sight to anyone who hasn't also watched Lance redo Kolivan's braid after it got burned off in a mission once.

“I see you are well,” Kolivan says, voice getting dangerously close to sounding cheerful.

“I didn't know you were coming.” Keith peels his cheek away from Kolivan's body. “Katie didn't tell me.”

“I will admit I wasn't sure I'd make it. Katie had mentioned the invitation and offered to take some of the Blades. Unfortunately most are still on missions.”

Keith smiles, though it's strained. Kolivan finally releases him.

Suddenly there's a group gathered around the two of them: Lance coming up behind Keith's shoulder; Shiro, Hunk, and Shay not far behind; Katie, Coran and Matt on Keith's other side. Beyond that, there's another circle gathering—guests and relatives and gawkers, silent and terrified.

It doesn't matter, Keith tells himself. This is all he needs. These are the people who understand him, who he understands.

Except there's one brave soul in the crowd.

Isabella flounces into their group, eyes wide but unafraid.

Lance notices her and puts an arm around her shoulder. She interprets it as a prompting for politeness. Instantly, she sticks her hand out.

Keith barks out a surprised laugh, and Kolivan raises a confused eyebrow.

“The Blades—”

“Marmorites,” Lance interjects, and Keith elbows him.

“—don't shake hands. Actually, they don't really hug, either, but we taught Kolivan that and he seems to like it.”

“Oh,” Isabella squeaks out. “Should I hug him?”

“If you want,” Kolivan says.

“Here,” Keith says, turning towards Izzy. “Like this, with your dominant hand.” He places his right arm across his chest so his fist settles over his heart.

“The Empire took this tradition from us as a mark of obedience,” Kolivan explains as he mimics Keith. Isabella mirrors him and Kolivan nods. “Very good. We've been attempting to reclaim the action as it's rightful meaning.”

“How is that working?” Shiro asks.

“Could be better,” Kolivan admits. “I fear we may have to alter it to change the association with the Empire; however, altering the greeting would also change its intended meeting.”

“What does it mean?” Isabella asks.

Kolivan looks pleased at her interest. “The Galra are naturally a... resilient race, and thus often aggressive. To place your dominant hand over your chest is a sign of peace.”

“You're moving your hand away from your weapon,” Keith adds. “And keeping it as a fist means you won't be reaching for something over your shoulder, either.”

“How are the integration efforts going?” Katie asks.

“That... also could be better,” Kolivan says. “There are ten thousands years of hatred associated with the Galra. We are not well received, though we've had some breakthroughs.”

“Progress is better than nothing, I guess,” Matt says.

“And you? Any luck with tracing your lost race?”

“Not as much as I'd hoped,” Katie says, deflating for a moment. “Any Altean DNA is long hidden among ten thousand years of cross-species breeding.”

“You'll find something,” Lance says. “Nothing gets past you, Pigeon.”

Katie grins, Altean markings brightening for a moment. “You got that right.”

“Uh, Lance,” Isabella says. “Mom looks like she's about to hurt something. You might wanna...”

“Shit. Yeah, maybe someone should explain Kolivan and stuff. I think we had some people just come for the reception too... Ugh.”

“I need another drink before I talk in front of anyone,” Keith announces.

“Babe,” Lance says. He grabs a chair from a nearby table. “Remind me to never have a wedding ever again.”

Keith squints at him as he climbs up on the chair, preparing to call out to the guests. “Well, I very sincerely hope you won't need to, because I will remind you, violently if necessary, that _you_ are the one that proposed. You're stuck with me.”

Lance starts laughing hard enough he almost falls off the chair.

 

The moment Lance dumps over one of the punch bowls and turns it into modern art, everyone forgets about the fact there are literal aliens in the room.

Party tricks.

Somehow, Keith can't find it in his heart to be mad about it. Lance's eyes are too bright with mirth, gaze loving when he looks at Keith over his shoulder, smile fond.

The world keeps turning.

Keith thinks of Shiro. It doesn't hurt so much.

 

Keith wanders into Lance's kitchen, yawning. Everything's a bit too bright, and he's not sure if that's because of the oversaturated happiness of being married or because he's hungover. Maybe both. It takes him a moment to realize the person making coffee isn't Lance.

“Good morning,” Shiro says.

“Sure,” Keith replies. “Coffee ready?”

“Almost.”

Keith leans against the counter. Shiro plants himself next to him.

“I'm sorry—” Shiro starts, but Keith interrupts.

“No, I'm sorry,” he says, staring down at his crossed arms. “You're right, as usual. I need to stop needing you. Even when I think I'm fine, I'm obviously not unless you're here and that's not good.”

“Maybe,” Shiro says and shrugs. “That's for you to figure out. But you're right too. I shouldn't have just disappeared. As a friend, I owe you an explanation in future.”

“I just—” Keith bites his lip. “I keep thinking it's something I've done. And that's not fair to you at all, but it's also not fair to me.”

Shiro puts his hand on Keith's shoulder, an old gesture. “I'm sorry,” he says.

Keith lets out a slow breath, watching the air move his bangs. “Are... Are you staying?”

“I don't know, still,” Shiro admits quietly. “But I'll keep in touch this time.”

Keith feels relief flood through his system. “Thank you.”

“You're right, too, about making your life here,” Shiro continues. “You're happy here. As happy as we can be. I'm proud of you. You found something good.”

Keith lets out a contemplative noise. “Yeah, I have. What about you? Found something good?”

“I think I'm still looking.”

“We're always here, Shiro. Or even, God, when was the last time you spoke to Matt?”

“Too long ago,” Shiro admits. He starts pouring a cup of coffee and then passes it to Keith.

“Thanks,” Keith says. “Maybe you should. If you're going to keep looking for whatever it is you need to find, why limit yourself to one planet?”

“I think I've had enough exploring for now,” Shiro chuckles. “But you have a point.”

“I'm just saying...” Keith looks down into his coffee. “I keep trying to find myself. I keep thinking I'll figure it all out one day. That something will click into place and suddenly everyone will be okay and we'll be truly happy. But it doesn't work like that. Happiness takes effort. You have to keep looking and you have to keep trying. It's just easier when you find someone to try with.”

Shiro looks at him sideways. “Are you trying to set me up with Matthew Holt?”

Keith tries to hold back a smile. “Only a little bit.” He cracks and laughs at Shiro's disgruntled expression before sobering. “I'm serious though. You're the only one who's trying to tough this out alone. It's what you do. You said we weren't a team anymore, but you're still trying to be leader. Still trying to take the weight on your shoulders and bear it without help.

“But we're _not_ a team anymore. We're friends. We can help each other. You're allowed to ask for help.”

Shiro shakes his head and chuckles. “You've been married for a day and suddenly you're full of wisdom.”

“Full of something,” Lance mutters from the doorway. He's shirtless and still half asleep as he walks over and nudges Keith's coffee out of the way so he can steal a hug. “Maybe himself.”

“Ha,” Keith says, deadpan. “Says the one who's ego is bigger than his body.”

Lance makes a noncommittal noise and presses a kiss to Keith's neck.

“I'd forgotten how much I missed this,” Shiro comments.

“I don't know if anyone ever really misses Lance,” Keith says.

Lance bites him, hard enough to sting. Keith yelps and hits him. He's distinctly satisfied by the weight of his wedding band on Lance's skin.

Laughter fills the room.

“Katie's in charge of lunch today,” Lance announces.

“It's already one,” Keith says.

“Late lunch, then. Dunch. Linner. Whatever. Katie's in charge of food.”

“Go put on clothes then,” Keith says, poking Lance on his bare shoulder. He turns to Shiro. “You coming?”

Shiro pauses for a moment, and then something makes him smile. It's faint, but present. Real. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

The universe is not so cruel, after all.

 


End file.
